


A Subtle Hunger

by Saucery



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Character Study, Child Abuse, Dark, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Family Drama, Family Secrets, Ficlet, Grief/Mourning, Incest, Introspection, Loss, M/M, No Dialogue, Non-Explicit, Parent/Child Incest, Rape/Non-con References, Triggers, Underage Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-18
Updated: 2013-01-18
Packaged: 2017-11-25 23:05:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/643925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a subtle hunger, this; it was a night-hunger, a night-flower, its petals white in the darkness.</p><p><b>Note:</b> Be warned that this is a VERY DISTURBING story, and that it contains incest and child abuse, both from the point of view of the abuser. Please DO NOT READ it unless you are absolutely prepared to do so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Subtle Hunger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [weebleroxanne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weebleroxanne/gifts).



* * *

 

He hadn't meant to do it. It had only started out as watching, treasuring, things that any father did. It had only started out as touching. Stiles was so much like his mother - so soft of mouth and strong of heart - and surely, surely, his strong heart could withstand this, could weather this, could love him like she had.

It had only started out as watching.

Stiles's smile, flitting like a bright bird in and out of the shadows, was her smile - Stlies's eyes, when they dipped in sleep, were her eyes. The curve of his throat, the slimness of his ankles. The way he held his fork. His uncomplicated pleasure in the act of eating, a simple act turned sensual. The way he flushed when embarrassed, the pale line of his body behind the shower-door, refracted through patterned glass.

It had only started out as touching.

A cupping of his face, just to feel its warmth. A kissing of the brow. Safe things. Fatherly things. A hug that lasted perhaps a moment too long. Then two moments. Then three. A running of the palm down a slender arm, testing the lean muscles that Stiles was so tentatively proud of - praising Stiles, because he needed to be praised. Touching him again. A hand under the hem of his shirt. A thumb at the edge of his shorts. Stroking. Testing, always testing, as though Stiles were a pool of warm water to submerge himself in. Comfort.

It had only started out as -

And the wonder of it was, Stiles never said no. He trembled - at times, he wept - but he never said no, and even his tears were gentle, a sort of forgiveness, a baptism, a gift of new life. Rain before a harvest. And, oh, his body was a harvest, a springtime of delights, achingly sweet and bitter by turns, like too-green berries from a too-young tree. And if Stiles was sallow, the day after, if he flinched a little at ordinary hugs, if he ate a little less, that only made him more tender, more vulnerable, more  _soft_ , more important, more worthy of being looked after, of being handfed, of being dropped off to school.

A good father was protective of his son. A good father -

Good -

There were times when Stiles seemed full of pity, as if at a madman, but those times were the times he  _cried_ -

Was it better to be mad, then?

Worse?

Was it better to sate this hunger, or to sweat it out, as one would a drug-fever?

No.

Too late. Too late.

The hunger, once fed, had to be fed again and again.

It was a subtle hunger, this; it was a night-hunger, a night-flower, its petals white in the darkness.

 

* * *

**fin.**


End file.
